He recalled starkly the marine officer with his bloodied hands to his face. Benbow's junior lieutenant with his jaw shot away. Other faces, inflamed with the hate and terror of battle, swept through his mind like souls in torment. It had all been for nothing. Tsar Paul had lost six prize-ships which he had unlawfully seized, but Styx 's swift vengeance had given him the lever he required just the same.
`Turning for a moment to your encounter with Ropars' squadron.'
Beauchamp's precise tones brought Bolitho back to the room again.
`Our intelligence sources tell me that the French transport was indeed carrying soldiers to aid and train the Tsar's army. Your action, particularly the destruction of the enemy seventy-four, scattered Ropars' ships, and he also lost a frigate to the blockading squadron in the Channel.'
'So that was approved, sir?' Bolitho could not hide the bitterness he felt.
Beauchamp snapped, 'Do not act like a junior lieutenant, Bolitho! I am dealing with hearsay as well as the facts. As a flag officer you would do well to follow my example!' He was calm again. 'Of course it was approved, dammit! The story, largely exaggerated and distorted by the people who write such things, went through London like a lion. If Ropars had got into the Baltic it would have taken an act of God to force him out again. With French soldiers, no matter how few, and all those ships, Tsar Paul's unholy alliance would have been at our throats. I am told with equal authority that plans were in readiness to launch an invasion from the Channel ports to coincide with the big thrust from the Baltic. Now, whatever the outcome later on, your victory has given us time. Before the ice melts around Paul's ports and bases, we must be ready!'
Bolitho wondered what would have happened if another admiral had been facing him across this desk. Beauchamp was ruthless when he needed to be, but he was known for his fairness, too.
The little admiral continued, `Even so, there are the critics who ask why your flag captain failed to act on the courier brig's report that Ropars was making for Ireland. It would make good sense to many. The King has only recently approved the alteration of the Union Flag to conform with our union with Ireland. From January the first, that is next week, it would outwardly appear less simple to rouse a rebellion there.'
`Captain Herrick acted wisely as it turned out, sir. Had he done as you suggest, there would have been nothing to stop Ropars.’
'Possibly. But I did warn you when you accepted the appointment. Envy is never far away.'
Beyond the tall doors someone coughed discreetly, and Beauchamp peered at the dock.
`You will be tired after your journey.'
The interview was over.
Bolitho stood up and tested his weight on his leg. His thigh felt as if it was asleep, lifeless. He waited for the first tingling stab to move through it and asked, `Will you be requiring my presence again, sir?'
'It is possible. I took the liberty of arranging some comfortable quarters for you. My secretary will give the address to your flag lieutenant. How is he, by the way?'
Bolitho walked with him to the door. He still could not determine whether the admiral was supporting his actions or merely preparing judgement on them.
'I can't imagine how I managed without him, sir.' He looked him in the eyes. 'He is extremely competent.'
Beauchamp grimaced. 'Impertinent, too, when the mood takes him.'
With one hand resting on the door Beauchamp said quietly, 'The next months are going to be demanding, even critical. We shall need every good officer, every loyal hand if we are to survive, let alone win through.' He studied Bolitho's impassive features and added, 'You know about Sir Samuel Damerum, of course. I can see it on your face as plain as a pikestaff. My spies told me that Browne had been ferreting around for information, and the rest was simple reasoning.
'I have no intention of involving you or my appointment, sir.' He got no further.
Beauchamp said, 'I like you, Bolitho, and I admire your courage as well as your humanity. But you involve anyone and there will be no appointment, do I make myself clear? You are above it now. Remain so.'
He opened the door and about six officers who had been waiting moved hopefully towards it.
Browne got to his feet from a bench seat and groaned. His face was ashen.
'I have the address, sir.' He quickened his pace to keep up with Bolitho. 'Was everything satisfactory, sir?'
'If you call being made to feel like a grubby schoolboy satisfactory, then yes, it was. If you imagine that obeying every order, even if written by a blindfolded donkey, and no matter what you know to be the truth, then again I must say yes!'
Browne said shakily. 'It was not a success then, sir.'
No.' Bolitho turned at the foot of the stairs. 'Do you still wish to serve with the squadron?'
He could not help smiling at Browne's crest fallen expression, his appearance of complete exhaustion. His companion at dinner must have roused herself enough to torment Browne to the point of collapse.
Browne straightened up. 'I do, sir.' He squinted at a piece of paper. 'The residence is not too far away. I know Cavendish
Square quite well, sir.' He added in a pained voice, 'We shall not be on the fashionable side of it, I'm afraid.'
Allday was waiting outside by the carriage, patting the horses and chatting with the coachman.
Bolitho climbed into the carriage and drew his cloak around him, remembering the girl lolling against his body as they had headed off the road to Lord Swinburne's estate.
The carriage rocked on its fine springs as Browne clambered
up beside him.
'You remember the young lady, Browne?' Browne stared at him blankly. 'Mrs Laidlaw, sir?'
'Yes.' He almost said, o f course. 'Did you discover where she
is staying?'
The house belongs to an elderly judge, sir. He has, I under=
stand, an equally old wife, who is also disagreeable to boot.'
`Well?'
Browne was obviously getting his own back.
Browne spread his hands. 'That is all, sir. The judge is often on the Assize circuit and away from home a great deal.' He swallowed hard under Bolitho's eyes. 'The young lady will be a companion to the judge's wife, sir.'
'Good God!'
Browne recoiled. 'I – I am sorry, sir. Did I do or say something wrong?'
Bolitho did not hear him. A companion. It was common enough for widows these days to be forced into such positions. But surely not her? Young, vital, desirable. His mind reeled to his anger and concern. Rupert Seton had offered to help her, and had in fact arranged passage home for her from India. Seton was a rich man and could easily have made some allowance for her care and protection. It was so unlike the Seton he had known, whose sister he had loved, he could scarcely believe it.
But what could he do about it? One thing was certain, he would not leave things as they were, even at the expense of making himself look a fool again.
The carriage came to a halt outside an elegant building with a broad pillared entrance. Another temporary headquarters, and even if, according to Browne, it was not the fashionable side of the square, it was impressive in its own right.
Browne nodded weakly to two servants who were hurrying down the steps to greet them.
To Bolitho he said, 'Will you be needing me, sir?'
'Go and rest your head. When you are refreshed and restored
from your orgy, I would ask you to take a letter for me.'
'A letter.' Browne nodded again, his eyes vacant. 'Yes. To that judge's house you mentioned.' Browne grappled with it and asked, 'Is it wise, sir?'
'Probably not. But at the moment it seems I am not much
in demand for my wisdom.'
Allday watched him from the door as the servants hauled their chests into the warm hallway.
That's more like it, my captain. They want fire, you give it them, damn their eyes.
He turned as a woman's voice asked, 'Are you ready for some food, sir?'
Allday ran his eye over her approvingly. Must be the cook. She had a very full figure, and her round, plump arms were halfwhitened with flour. But her face was gentle and friendly.
He replied lazily, 'Just you call me John, my dear.' He touched her bare arm and added, 'Here, I'll give you a hand if you like. You know what they say about sailors.'
The kitchen door swung shut behind them.
Captain Thomas Herrick sipped slowly at a tankard of strong ale and ran his eyes over the remaining pile of books and papers which awaited his attention.
It was strange to feel the Benbow so still, which, plus hard work and the excellent ale, was making him drowsy.
Anchored within the sheltered stretch of Portsmouth Harbour was far different from the lively Solent, or that bleak rendezvous he had shared with the squadron at Skaw Point.
He went over the repairs and the replenishments for the hundredth time, looking for a flaw, expecting to discover a forgotten item.
Herrick felt justifiably proud of what he and his company had achieved. It could not have been easy for most of them, working without let-up, knowing all the while that over in the town, and throughout the country, others were celebrating Christmas to the full extent of their means.
From his own pocket Herrick had provided something of a feast for his sailors and marines. Some of them had got so drunk that they had to be forcibly restrained. But it had been worth it, he decided, and when they had turned to for work again he had felt the change run through the ship like a lively shanty.
He thought of his wife, waiting for him to come ashore when he had finished his duties for the day. It was all so new and wonderful to Herrick. A nice, snug little inn run by a friendly landlord and his wife. A parlour of their own when Herrick went to share his dreams and hopes with his Dulcie.
With a deep sigh he turned his attention to,the lists and ledgers. Progress of work book, muster book, details of stores, gunnery equipment, canvas, every fibre and nerve of a fullrigged fighting ship of the line.
Herrick had thought a great deal about Bolitho, had wondered how he was getting on in London. He knew Bolitho had never been at ease in the capital. Streets piled with horse dung, a place being poisoned by its own stench, he had once said. The streets had become so overcrowded with vehicles of every sort that the richer houses had to spread straw on the cobbles to muffle the din of iron-shod wheels.
He often examined his own feelings about the battle with the French admiral, Ropars. Herrick had faced death alongside Bolitho many times, and each threat seemed to get worse than the one before. Without effort he could see Bolitho on Benbow's gangway, waving his hat to torment the French marksmen and give his own sailors heart to continue their fight against odds.
A lot of men had died or been wounded that day. Herrick's lieutenants had roamed the backstreets of Portsmouth and further out to the Hampshire villages and farms in search of men. Herrick had even had some handbills printed and distributed to inns and village halls where they could be read aloud by someone with education to inspire or coax a man to join the Colours.
Relentless had dropped anchor that forenoon, having been relieved on station by the' hastily repaired Styx. Despatches had been exchanged, new hands signed on. The Navy allowed little time for rest or complacency. He glanced at the big Union Flag which the boatswain had brought aft to show him. The new flag, with the additional Cross of St Patrick sewn on it. A lot of those had gone out to the squadron, too. To Herrick's practical mind it seemed a waste of effort to change a flag when the world was intent on destroying itself.
Yovell, Bolitho's clerk, padded into the cabin, a fresh bunch of papers in his hands for signature. With Herrick's own clerk, Yovell had been a tower of strength. Herrick hated paper, the need to form sentences so that no victualling yard or chandler could misinterpret them.
'More?'
Yovell smiled. 'A few, zur. There is one to sign for the London courier.'
Herrick glanced at it uneasily. That was another thing he found hard to get used to. Running his own ship was quite enough. But as flag captain he had to put his thoughts to the affairs of the whole squadron, which included Relentless.
Captain Peel had reported that his third lieutenant, wounded in the leg during the fight with the enemy squadron, had had his leg amputated and was now ashore in the naval hospital at Haslar.
He required a replacement immediately, as none of his midshipmen had the age or seniority for the appointment. Relentless hoped to weigh and rejoin the squadron without additional delay. Herrick thought immediately of Pascoe and dismissed the idea. It might be days, weeks before Bolitho was back. It would be unfair to send the boy away in this fashion.
Yovell watched him impassively. 'Shall I prepare a letter for the port admiral, zur?'
Herrick rubbed his chin.- There were several men-of-war in harbour completing repairs of storm or battle. One of them would have a replacement, a young officer who would give his soul for a place with Captain Peel.
'I shall think about it.'
He knew Yovell was shaking his head sadly. He might have a word with Peel. Invite him to dine with Dulcie. Herrick brightened immediately. She would know what to do. She had given him such confidence he could scarcely believe it.
Herrick stood up and crossed to the side of his cabin. He wiped the damp haze off the glass and peered across the harbour. It was afternoon, but it was almost dark. He could barely see the two great three-deckers which -were anchored abeam, and there were already some small lights bobbing on the water as boats plied back and forth like beetles.
One more day and he would be writing those all important words in his despatch.
Being in all respects ready for sea…
After this stay in harbour it would be hard to stomach.
There was a tap at the door and Speke, the second lieutenant, stepped over the coaming, his eyes glinting in the lamplight.
'What is it?'
Speke shot a quick glance at the clerk and Herrick said, 'Later, Yovell. Leave us just now.' Speke's cold expression had swept away his feeling of satisfaction and comfort like a breaking wave.
'I believe Mr Pascoe may be in trouble, sir.'
'You what?' Herrick stared at him. 'Spit it out, man!'
'He was officer of the watch, sir. I relieved him when he asked permission to go ashore. He said it was urgent.' Speke gave a brief shrug. 'Young he may be, but he is more experienced than many of our people. I did not question his reasons.'
'Go on.'
Herrick forced himself to sit down, to display calm as he had seen Bolitho do so many times.
'There was a freshwater lighter alongside for most of the day, sir. When it cast off it appears that one of the working party went with it. Deserted. Mr Midshipman Penels was in charge of the party. just a handful of landmen. And after a quick muster I discovered the missing one is Babbage, whose punishment was stood over by you, sir.'
Herrick studied him grimly. 'You are suggesting that the midshipman helped Babbage to run?'
Speke met his gaze complacently. 'Yes, sir. He admitted it. But only after Mr Pascoe had gone ashore. He was so ashamed at what he had done, he thought he should own up to Mr Pascoe. The young fool. Babbage will be caught and run up to the mainyard anyway. As it is…'
'As it is, Mr Speke, the third lieutenant has gone ashore to recover the deserter, to bring him back before anyone discovers he is missing?'
'Correct, sir. But for Penels…'
'Fetch him here.'
Herrick shifted in his chair, his mind thrashing about like a snared fish. It would be just like Pascoe, he thought. What Bolitho would have done. Wrhat I would have done. Once.
Speke thrust the terrified boy through the door and closed it behind him, saying angrily, 'You can thank your miserable stars it was I and not-the senior who found out. Mr Wolfe would have torn you in halves!'
'Easy!' Herrick's tone silenced him. 'What did you arrange with the man Babbage?'
'I – I just thought I could help him, sir. After all he did for me at home.' Penels was sniffing and close to tears. 'He was so afraid of being hurt again. I had to help him, sir.'
'Where was he going, did he tell you?' Herrick felt his patience draining away. 'Come on, boy, Mr Pascoe may be in danger. And he tried to help you, remember?'
Herrick hated the shame and despair he was causing but knew there was worse to come.
In a small voice Penels whispered, 'He said he would find a place called The Grapes. One of the old hands had spoken of it.'
Speke groaned. 'A truly foul place, sir. Even the press would not go there without a full squad.'
Penels, lost in his misery, continued, 'He was going to wait until I could get some money. Then he was hoping to return to Cornwall.'
Herrick looked at the tankard. It was empty and his throat felt like dust.
'My compliments to Major Clinton. Ask him to see me.'
Speke hurried away and Herrick said, 'Well, Penels, at least you had the wit to tell Mr Speke what you had done. It is not much but it may help.'
The marine entered and said, 'Can I assist, sir?'
Clinton did not even glance at the wretched midshipman, and Herrick guessed Speke had told him what had happened. It was probably over the whole ship by now.
'Mr Pascoe is at The Grapes, Major. Does that mean anything?'
Clinton nodded. 'A lot, sir.' He added, 'With your permission I'd like to go ashore without delay. I'll take Mr Marston and some of my lads.'
'Thank you, Major Clinton. I'm obliged.'
Moments later he heard the twitter of calls and the grating latter of tackles as a boat was swayed up and over the gangway. Then boots, as some hand-picked marines hurried to obey Clinton 's unexpected summons.
Herrick regarded the sniffing midshipman for several seconds.
Then he said, 'I agreed to take you aboard as a favour to an old friend. What this will do to him, let alone your mother, I cannot imagine. Now take yourself below and report to the senior master's mate.'
As Penels groped blindly for the door Herrick said quietly, `While you are in your berth, think on this. One day you would have had men depending on your judgement. Ask yourself if you think that is right.'
Yovell entered as the midshipman departed.
'Bad, zur.'
Herrick glanced at the round handwriting, the place below for his signature.
'I shall want to send a message to my wife. I'll not be ashore tonight, I'm thinking.'
He listened for the sound of the boat but it had already left the Benbow's side.
Pascoe strode along yet another narrow street, his boat-cloak billowing around him in the stiff wind. He did not know Portsmouth very well, but the officer of the guard had explained where The Grapes was situated. The officer had suggested that Pascoe should stay away from such 'a hell-hole, as he had described it. Pascoe had told him he was to meet a party of armed seamen nearby in the hope of seizing some likely recruits. It had been surprising how easily the lie had come. The officer of the guard had not even been interested. Anyone foolish enough to hope for pressed_ men in Portsmouth would have to have more than luck.
One street seemed very like the next. Narrow, squalid, but never empty of movement. In doorways and beneath arches, at windows, or merely in the form of sounds. Drunken laughter, shrieks and terrible oaths. As if the miserable dwellings and not their occupants were giving voice.
Once a girl reached out to touch his shoulder as he passed. Even in the gloom he could tell she was no more than fourteen or fifteen.
Pascoe thrust her away and heard her shrill voice pursuing him around the next corner.
'You bloody bastard! I 'ope the Frogs spill yer guts from you!'
Quite suddenly it was there. A square, sombre building, protected on either side by smaller houses, and the street was littered with filth which stank like a sewer.
Pascoe had once been used to poverty, and as a midshipman had seen and suffered hardship in plenty. But all this unnecessary filth seemed needless, disgusting.
He stared up at a flaking board above the main entrance, feeling the rain bouncing on his hat and face. The Grapes.
Beneath his cloak he loosened his hanger and then banged on the door with his fist.
A panel flew inwards, as if the man had been poised there, waiting.
'Yes? Who is it?' Two white eyes swivelled back and forth across Pascoe's shoulders, but seeing no armed seamen or marines, seemed satisfied. 'A young gentleman, is it?'
Even the man's crooning voice made Pascoe feel sick.
'Cat got your tongue, has it? Ah well, we'll soon sort that out for you!'
The panel snapped shut; and seconds later the great door swung inwards and Pascoe stepped inside. It was like being swallowed up. Suffocated.
It must have been a fine house once, he thought. Big staircase, now damaged and covered in dust. Carpets, too, once rich and thick, were full of holes and covered in stains. A merchant's house perhaps, when Portsmouth had been busier for commerce and not plagued by the French and the privateers which were too close for comfort.
An immense woman stepped from a room. She was tall,. muscular and without any femininity. Even her piled hair and the great red slash of a mouth made her look like a ploughman dressed for a village play.
The doorkeeper said in a wheedling voice, 'He's an officer, ma'am!'
She moved towards Pascoe, her deepset eyes fixed on his face. Like the house, she seemed to engulf him. He could see the skin of her partly bared bosom, feel her power. He could even smell her. Gin and sweat.
'Are you with the press, young fellow?' She put her hand under his chin and looked at him searchingly. 'Pretty boy. No, you're here for some fun, eh?'
Pascoe said carefully, 'I believe a man is hiding here.' He saw her eyes flash dangerously and added, 'I want no trouble. If I can get him back to the ship he will have nothing to fear.'
She chuckled, the sound rising through her great body until it broke into the hall like a guffaw.
'Nothing to fear? That's a bloody good one that is, eh, Charlie?'
The doorkeeper tittered uncertainly. 'Yes, ma'am.'
Pascoe stood very still as the woman unclipped his boat-cloak and lifted it from his shoulders.
'I've two good girls for you, Lieutenant.' But she sounded defensive, as if even she was impressed.
Pascoe put his left hand on his hanger and very slowly drew it upwards and then fully out of its scabbard. Her eyes never wavered from his, and he knew there were other hidden watchers nearby, ready to cut him down if he attempted to use his hanger.
He turned it in his hand and turned the hilt towards her.
'See? Now I am unarmed.'
She tossed the blade carelessly to the pop-eyed doorkeeper and said, 'Come with me, dearie. A glass of Geneva while I think a bit. This man you are trying to help.' She could not repress a grin. 'His name?'
'Babbage.'
'And you'll be Mr…?'
A girl's grubby hand came out of the shadows and gave Pascoe a glass of gin.
He said, 'Pascoe, ma'am.'
'Damn me, I believe you!'
She walked from the room. 'Stay here, dearie. I'm not saying I know the man. But if he is here, without me knowing, of course, I will put your case to him.' She turned and stared at him boldly. 'Don't fret, pretty boy. He'll not run if I say different.'
It was warm in the musty-smelling room and yet Pascoe felt the sweat on his spine like ice. A stupid, crazy gesture. And for what? To help Penels, or to prove to himself that he could do it? His hanger was gone, and at any moment he might be rushed, his throat cut merely for the price of his clothes.
While he waited he became aware of the rest of the house. It was alive with furtive sounds and muffled voices. Every room must be occupied, he thought.
He looked at the girl who was holding the stone gin bottle to her breast. Thin, sunken-eyed, worn out and probably diseased to add to her misery.
She looked back at him and smiled, letting her shabby dress fall from one shoulder as she did so.
It made her look pitiful instead of provocative.
A door banged open and men's voices boomed down the stairs urgent and angry.
Pascoe walked from the room and looked up the stairway. There were three men at the top landing, and cowering against the wall was a fourth, Babbage.
The biggest of the men pointed at Pascoe and barked, 'That him?'
Pascoe noticed that he was wearing the white breeches and shirt of a sea officer and had probably been disturbed at his pleasure. Whatever the reason, it was a relief to know he was not entirely alone.
Babbage said huskily, 'Yes, sir. That's Mr Pascoe.'
The man came down the stairs slowly. He was heavily built and in his middle twenties, with thick, curly hair and a hard, aggressive face.
'Well, well, well.' He paused on the bottom stair and rocked back on his heels. 'I was going to meet you, Mr Pascoe, but I never thought you'd fall from the sky like this.'
'I don't understand?'
The big man turned and waved his arm to his companions. 'Though I suppose Mr Pascoe would be well at home here, eh, lads?'
They laughed, and 'one stooped to seize Babbage as he tried to crawl away. There was blood on his mouth and he had obviously been beaten.
'I order you to hand over that man to me, whoever you are!'
'He orders! This youth, masquerading as a King's officer, orders me!'
The woman of the house pushed past the others and placed herself between them and Pascoe.
She said angrily, 'Leave him be, damn you!, He means no harm.'
'Oh, I'm certain of that, Ruby! Mr Pascoe's own mother was a whore, and his bloody father a traitor to his country, so what harm could he do?'
Pascoe swayed on his feet, stunned by the man's grating voice. He could feel himself shivering, the anger and hate tearing at his insides like claws.
It could not be possible, was not happening. Not now, after all this time, the dreams, the pretence.
The woman was looking at him anxiously. 'You'd better be off. Lively now. I want no trouble here. I've that enough as it is.'
Pascoe brushed past her, seeing nothing but the towering, grinning face on the stairway.
'Well, Mr Pascoe?' He was enjoying it. 'Is your uncle still protecting his brother's bastard?'
Pascoe sprang forward and drove his fist into the man's face. He saw the shock and surprise, felt the pain lance up his arm from the force of the blow. But the face was still there, the unexpected strength of Pascoe's punch already bringing blood to his lip.
'Well now, you've struck me!' He dabbed his mouth, his eyes hidden in shadow. 'To be touched by the likes of you is like getting the plague! I think this can be settled, that is, if you have learned how to ape the gentleman?'
Pascoe met his challenge with sudden calmness, or was it resignation?
He heard himself say, 'Swords?'
'I think not.' The other man was still dabbing his lip, watching Pascoe, measuring his resistance, his hurt. 'Pistols I believe would be better. But before we part…'
He snapped his fingers and Pascoe found his arms being pinioned to his sides.
… I will give you a lesson in manners.'
He swung round, caught off guard, as Babbage darted past them, his head covered by his hands as he ran for the door. With a frantic gasp he dragged it open and was gone.
The big man drew back his fist. 'That's the last we'll see of him!'
Pascoe tensed for the blow which was aimed at his stomach. He was dimly aware of running feet, a sharp challenge and the sudden bang of a musket.
Major Clinton entered the doorway, swinging his black stick carelessly as he said, That was Babbage. My men challenged him but he ran.' He waited until the others had released Pascoe's arms and said, 'You were too late for him, Mr Pascoe.' He nodded to the man with the cut lip. 'But you were in time, I take it, Mr Roche?'
The man he had named as Roche shrugged. 'Just high spirits, Major. It is not forbidden for us to come here.'
Clinton snapped, `You are leaving now! And I do not care if you do serve on the admiral's staff. Your courage would not last for long in battle, I suspect!'
The three men retrieved their coats and left, but not before Pascoe had seen that Roche was a naval lieutenant, as were his companions.
'I am sorry to involve you, sir.'
Pascoe followed the marine into the wet street. Clinton 's lieutenant, Marston, and a file of marines were standing by a sprawled corpse. For Babbage at least it was over.
'I cannot discuss it further.' Clinton looked at his men. 'Get rid- of this body.' Then he fell in step beside Pascoe and added wearily, 'Roche is on the staff of the port admiral. He will never be promoted for he now has means of his own. He is a dangerous man. Did he provoke you into a challenge?'
'That is something which I cannot discuss, sir.'
Clinton remembered Herrick's face and thought otherwise.
13. Three Minutes to Live
Bolitho waited hesitantly in the neat London square and looked at the house. He had made himself walk from his temporary residence for several reasons. To exercise his leg and to give himself time to prepare what he was going to say.
He had asked Browne if he had seen Belinda Laidlaw when he had called to deliver the letter, but Browne had shaken his head.
'Just a servant, sir. It was so glum there, it was like a tomb.'
Bolitho could now understand Browne's brief description. The house was a twin of the one alongside it. Tall, elegant and of fine proportions. There was no other similarity. It looked cold and unwelcoming, and yet he had the distinct impression it was watching him, as if the whole square was holding its breath to see what a visitor was doing here.
After his walk, the bustle and noise around the many shops and wine merchants, he felt less sure of himself.
It was ridiculous. He strode up the steps and reached for the bell-pull, but the door opened before him as if by magic.
A miserable-looking footman regarded him curiously.
'Sir?'
Bolitho was in no mood for argument. He released his cloak from his throat and handed it to the footman, then his hat.
'My name is Richard Bolitho. Mrs Laidlaw is expecting me.'
As he examined his appearance in a tall, heavily framed mirror, Bolitho saw the man backing up the hallway, staring from the hat and cloak to the visitor with something like awe. Bolitho guessed that they had few guests here, and certainly not any uncouth junior flag officer.
He straightened his coat and turned to face the interior.
Everything looked old and heavy. Owned once by people now long dead, he thought.